


Observed Warmth

by Juli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juli/pseuds/Juli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Think of him like a cat. He does what he wants, when he wants. You can't order him about; you can only pique his curiosity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observed Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010

Detective Inspector Lestrade sometimes wondered what it would be like to investigate crime in an exotic location like Las Vegas or Abu Dhabi. Specifically, somewhere warm and dry, where he didn’t have to worry about rain mucking up his forensics. Unfortunately, he was in London and had no such luck. Sighing, Lestrade turned up the collar of his jacket and then pulled out his cell phone.

“Sir, don’t,” Donovan had seen what he was doing and pleaded with him. “We can handle this case on our own.”

“Sure we can,” Lestrade retorted even as his fingers typed out a text message. “That’s why this is the fourth body this month.”

She didn’t have anything to say about that, although she glared at him as much as she could, given the differences in their ranks. Donovan needn’t have bothered, as it turned out. Lestrade got an almost instant response to his message.

*No. SH*

“No?” Lestrade muttered under his breath. He’d had Holmes turn him down before, but rarely when a series of murders was involved and never when there was no apparent motive or evidence. He texted again, his fingers pressing the buttons with more force that was really necessary. He got an answer just as quickly as the first time – and every bit as maddening.

*No. Don’t ask again. SH*

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade muttered, trying to ignore the rain dripping down his nose. Donovan leaned over his arm and managed to read the text before Lestrade could move his phone out of the way.

“I guess that answers that,” she stated, her annoyed tone at odds with her earlier protest to calling Holmes to the case in the first place. “Can’t rely on the freak for anything.”

Fortunately for Lestrade, he knew that Sherlock no longer worked alone and that the man’s partner was the very definition of reliability. He left off texting and made a call. “Hello, John?”

It only took a few moments to explain the situation. Lestrade spoke rapidly, not giving John Watson a chance to interrupt. Not that John was likely to; he was a quiet man. Even so, John seemed more reticent than normal. Something was off, but Lestrade was too worried about the murders he was investigating to give it much consideration. 

After hearing Lestrade out, John assured him that they’d be there shortly. Lestrade quickly turned his phone off and pocketed it. It was childish, he knew, but Lestrade figured that if he were unable to receive any texts from Sherlock, then Holmes couldn’t override Watson’s agreement to help. Of course, that didn’t stop Holmes from texting any number of the officers on the scene, but Lestrade shooed them all away when they attempted to deliver the messages. It was cowardice on top of his childishness, to force his subordinates to deal with the man, but lives were at stake.

It seemed a long time before Holmes and Watson arrived, but it might have been the weather that made it feel that way. Just about the time a taxi pulled up, the rain turned to snow. It was the type of snow that had big, fat snowflakes that dampened sound and spirits both, making an already unpleasant experience even more so. Lestrade pulled at his collar again, but it was already as high as it could possibly go. The cold air found a way around it anyway and Lestrade shivered. It was no day for man or beast to be outside.

Even before the taxi had pulled away, Sherlock bounded up the steps to the landing where the body lay. The corpse of a young woman had been found in front of a government building and Lestrade’s crew worked around it. If there had been any evidence along with her, it had long been washed away.

Lestrade was used to Holmes homing in on the crime scene. In fact, part of the problems the consultant detective had with the police stemmed his insistence on ignoring or insulting them. This time, however, Sherlock strode right up to Lestrade and ignored everything else.

“Do not go ‘round me like that again,” Sherlock’s voice was colder than the air. “Ever.”

Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, just pivoted and stalked over to the body. John followed at a slower pace, but he was close enough to have heard the short exchange.

“If it helps,” John said, seeming to be more out of the breath than the series of steps would warrant. “Think of him like a cat. He does what he wants, when he wants. You can’t order him about; you can only pique his curiosity.”

The more John spoke, the more Lestrade realized what was off about the other man. “You have a cold.”

It was obvious. Not only did John’s voice show how congested he was, but his nose and cheeks were positively red and his eyes appeared to be watering. Had Lestrade made the observation in front of Sherlock, he no doubt would have be mocked for it. John, on the other hand, just nodded.

“John!”

The two men looked over. Sherlock was gesturing imperiously at Watson. John gave Lestrade a small smile and went to join his partner.

“Cat, huh?” Lestrade murmured. He shook his head and went back to work.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t invite the middle ground. He was the type of person that other people admired or found irritating. Most of Lestrade’s group were on the irritated side, but even so, Holmes’ presence did put them on their toes. An already skilled group, they put in the extra effort when the consulting detective was around.

On their toes or not, everything came to a complete stop when a loud sneeze sounded.

Lestrade happened to be looking at Sherlock and Watson when it happened. Both were squatting near the body and when John sneezed, it rocked the short man back on his heels. Only Sherlock’s quick arm supporting his back kept the doctor from ending up on his rump. 

John’s cheeks got redder as he realized that all work had ceased and that everyone was looking at him. “Sorry.”

“Over there,” Sherlock jabbed his finger at the building’s stone overhang. “Now.”

Donovan had come up to Lestrade, waiting for instructions. She watched the scene with hardened eyes. “The cheek of the man. I don’t know why Dr. Watson puts up with it.”

Lestrade rather thought he might, but he certainly wasn’t going to say so to Sally Donovan. He instead directed her to go interview the victim’s co-workers. He wasn’t sure if it was worthwhile or not, but he was desperate to get her out of his hair. 

After several more minutes, and just as many muffled sneezes from Dr. Watson’s corner, Sherlock finally stood. Lestrade startled slightly as Holmes’ electric eyes focused on him; it was always a little disconcerting to be the object of such a targeted gaze. Still, Lestrade knew an order when he saw one and obediently approached the body.

Before Sherlock could speak, however, Lestrade had something to say. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have insisted had I known he was ill.”

Sherlock became completely still for a moment and when he next looked at Lestrade, there was far less constrained fury in his face. He nodded minutely and Lestrade relaxed; Sherlock could be incredibly unpleasant when he held a grudge.

“Your killer is obvious,” Sherlock began – and his assessment went downhill from there. Lestrade’s people were ‘idiots’ for not noticing the victim’s newly applied hair color, ‘blind’ for not realizing that her fingernails had been painted after her death and ‘lacking basic human intelligence’ for not putting it all together and determining that a disgruntled salon employee was the culprit.

“I believe that even your staff should be able to handle it from here,” Sherlock summarized. Without another word, he turned and walked over to John. 

As Lestrade watched, Sherlock removed his ubiquitous scarf and wound it around John’s neck, carefully tucking it in with long fingers that seemed suddenly awkward. John covered them briefly with his own and the two men shared a smile that seemed intimate and private, despite being surrounded by police.

Suddenly, Lestrade didn’t seem quite so cold anymore.

Sherlock led John from the dubious protection of the building overhang, clearly escorting him from the crime scene. As they passed Lestrade, he reached out and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “At least let me find you someone to drive you home.”

John shook his head and would have said something, but he started coughing instead. Sherlock frowned, but repeated the gesture. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I don’t think he needs to be out in this any more than he already has,” Lestrade protested.

Holmes raised one eyebrow in elegant distain. “And who’s fault is that?” He shook his head again when Lestrade started to answer. “Never mind. We have our own ride.”

The two men continued down the stairs and Lestrade turned to follow them with his eyes. While he’d been talking to Sherlock, a sleek black sedan had driven up. As Sherlock and Holmes approached, a dapperly-dressed man hopped out and snapped open an umbrella. The stranger held it over John as he got into the car. For some reason the show of manners seemingly upset Sherlock, who glared at the man and said something, probably rude, before following John into the car.

“Huh,” Lestrade muttered as he watched the car pull away. A small, cold stream of water avoided his collar and went down his neck, reminding him that he couldn’t retreat anywhere warm until his job was finished. He made a mental note to send Watson a bottle of rum later, for medicinal purposes.

The whole time he worked, however, Lestrade couldn’t get John’s comparison of Sherlock to a cat out of his head. It fit, right down to the cat bestowing affection where it wanted to. Witnessing Sherlock’s affection towards John had stirred something in Lestrade, something he hadn’t realized was there until it was too late. He wondered, if Sherlock was like a cat, was John Watson able to get the man to purr?

He rather thought that John might and that thought kept Lestrade far warmer than any coat possibly could.

~the end~


End file.
